


Exit Wounds

by provocative_envy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1836763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I remember the way our gazes caught, the way an unexpected shiver danced down my spine, notches stuck straight, locked firmly in place, but still quivering, still <b>trembling</b>—because you knew me, and I did not know you, and while those circumstances were hardly strange—I was the regular guest of honor at the Malfoys’ tea parties, after all, the very first name at the very top of the guest list—there was something unsettling about your recognition, something about the barely-there tilt of your chin that felt mocking and predatory, like a hunter staring down its prey through the unforgiving barrel of a rifle.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit Wounds

* * *

 

_You saw me before I saw you._

I remember very little of the remainder of that morning, in truth. I remember the flash of your eyes from across the garden, jarring notes of amber and cinnamon and gold, and I remember the scandalous cut of your dress—it swirled around your thighs when you turned towards the door, a delicate waterfall of lilac chiffon and vintage Chantilly lace—a refreshing change, I remember thinking, from the monotonous sea of tailored navy pencil skirts and crisp black trousers, the usual uniform for that sort of gathering; explicitly neutral and implicitly suffocating.

I remember the way our gazes caught, the way an unexpected shiver danced down my spine, notches stuck straight, locked firmly in place, but still quivering, still _trembling_ —because you knew me, and I did not know you, and while those circumstances were hardly strange—I was the regular guest of honor at the Malfoys’ tea parties, after all, the very first name at the very top of the guest list—there was something unsettling about your recognition, something about the barely-there tilt of your chin that felt mocking and predatory, like a hunter staring down its prey through the unforgiving barrel of a rifle.

I remember being curious.

I remember following you.

I remember the sound of your heels, velvet-bottomed beige stilettos, sharp and quick against the white marble floor of the Malfoys’ foyer.

“Excuse me,” I called out, studying your hair—a riotous mess of brown and blond, streaks of chestnut and a hint of auburn all twisted into a complicated chignon at the base of your neck.

I remember you stopping, looking back at me over the slant of your bare shoulder. “Yes?” you drawled, bored and impatient. “Can I help you? I’m in a bit of a rush, unfortunately.”

I remember examining your face.

I remember noticing your lipstick was the same shade of red as freshly spilt blood.

I remember wondering if you knew that.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said with an easy smile. I held out my hand. “Tom Riddle.”

I remember the unimpressed arch of your brow, the instinctive glance you leveled at your wristwatch—

“Hermione Granger,” you said, lips thin and tone frosty. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, Mr. Riddle, but it rather _isn’t_ , actually, so—if you’ll excuse me?”

I remember being equal parts captivated and furious, the bite of your dismissal playing out like a discordant melody—a violin with a single broken string—as I watched you walk away.

It was the beginning.

It was the end.

 

* * *

 

I should confess that I figured out the nature of your secrets long before you ever deigned to share them with me.

I suspect you already know that, however—my clever girl with the clever wristwatch, precise to Greenwich down to the millisecond, isn’t it? You were always counting, always paying such scrupulous attention to clocks and numbers and the incessant chiming of the bells at St. Mary’s; how can that sort of behavior be anything other than deliberate, especially coming from you?

The answer, of course, is that it can’t be.

Not when you are so careful—so _meticulous_ —

You have a scar between your breasts. It is small, less than an inch wide, but it is deep, too, thick and pink and waxy, and Dark magical residue clings to it like electric static does to wool. I did not see it, initially—I was too entranced by your mumbled, hurried recitation of Proust, in flawless French, no less, _À la recherche du temps perdu,_ yes, _yes_ — _In Search of Lost Time—_ and oh, my darling, I should have realized then, should have understood that you were cutting and witty and dangerous in all the best ways, a poetess with a carving knife—

Except I was fumbling with the zipper on my trousers, hitching your legs around my hips as I pushed you hard against the kitchen wall and planted a chain of frantic, sloppy kisses along your neck, your clavicle, the cotton of your knickers warm and slightly damp against the roving, restless pressure of my thumb—your blouse had been torn apart at the collar, opalescent porcelain buttons strewn haphazardly around our feet, and your skirt had been yanked up, out of the way, the wet, telltale sheen of your inner thighs causing my already-stiff cock to jerk within the clutch of my fingers—and it was magnificent, when I surged forward, slowly, finally, yes, your breath scorching and moist as it mingled with mine, our mouths wide open and our lips just dry enough to catch, yes, and our eyes—your eyes—we were magnetic, weren’t we, a science experiment gone perfectly, wonderfully _right_.

It wasn’t until later that evening that I took the time to memorize every bend, every bow, every curve and every crevice and every corner of your body. I brushed my hand over the mark between your breasts and felt the sizzle of past, present, pestilent magic—it was yet another mystery of yours that I yearned to unravel, to take apart piece by errant piece, to explore the innards and the guts and the well-oiled machinations of. But when I leaned back, intent on inquiring about where the scar had come from, you were holding a stubby yellow pencil, tongue curled up in concentration, and scribbling feverishly in a tiny blue notebook.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, incredulous.

You blinked. “I’ve quite a lot of Arithmancy to get through if you insist on having me stay the night,” you stated, matter-of-fact. “Even more if you plan to make me breakfast—which, you should know that I prefer honey with my toast. Sugar content aside, it’s much healthier than butter.”

It was the beginning.

It was the end.

 

* * *

 

It has been a year since we met at the Malfoys’, and there are few facets of your personality that I am not intimately acquainted with.

You keep a stack of brightly colored photographs in the locked middle drawer of your escritoire; some move, others do not, and most include the same two boys with their arms around your waist, their grins dopey and your expression fond. It is apparent that you are a muggle-born, an abomination, but you have never mentioned it and I have never asked—you have given me the gift of plausible deniability, my darling, and for that I can only be grateful.

Because you are shrewd. You are shrewd and you are cunning and the first time you became stuck here, with me—the first time you felt your memories begin to disintegrate—the first time you heard the miniscule gears of your wristwatch stutter and grind to a halt—you did not panic. You did not cry.

“I think, Tom, that I’m going to need access to a library,” you said, swallowing roughly. “Preferably one with an extensive section on the Dark Arts.”

I have seen you scream out your frustration, your rage, witnessed the shattering of a priceless Waterford vase and the sudden blinding roar of a previously unlit fire behind a cast-iron grate. I have seen you bleed, seen you take the flat of a potions blade to your forearm before slicing through the fragile skin with a succinct separation of gristle and gore. I have seen you sick with the lingering physical agony that potent Dark magic leaves, seen you sweaty and disheveled and pale from the pain.

I have also seen you happy.

I have seen you laugh, helplessly, raucously, until your lungs quit working and your breath was wedged somewhere near the bottom of your throat and all you could manage was a weak, high-pitched hiccup—I have seen you flushed with a sunburn, nose freckled and eyes gleaming, seen you so remarkably drunk off of gin and seltzer that you stripped off your stockings and flung them into the fountain at Piccadilly Circus—and I have seen you soft with sleep, smiling and playful as you ducked beneath the sheets to clamp your teeth around the waistband of my shorts.

But despite all of that, I have only once seen you frightened.

The third time you found yourself unable to return home.

“On second thought,” you said, voice shaky as you stared at your wristwatch, “perhaps I should stay for a bit longer. I’ve an awful headache.”

It was the beginning.

It was the end.

 

* * *

 

I am aware, my darling—have _been_ aware, for months—that you originally set out to destroy me. A perilous endeavor, to be sure, and one that is predicated almost entirely upon your own, rather arrogant assumption that I would find you fascinating enough to chase. You were quite clearly correct, however, and if you had not made such a grievous error in judgment while calculating the magnitude of the ensuing fallout—if you had not _undervalued_ the warnings that I now know you were given about the risks incurred by those who attempt to meddle with time—

It is funny, in retrospect.

You sought to entrap, to _ensnare_ , and instead, you ended up entwined—with me, to us, detached from the crumbling foundation of the future you’ve now had to leave behind.

This is the beginning.

This is not the end.

 

* * *

 


End file.
